


Sweet as Sugar or Sweeter Still

by Wheat From Chaff (wheatfromchaff)



Series: everybody works [5]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mentions of RPS, Pre-Relationship, RPS for characters who real only in the setting of the story, Romantic Comedy, mentions of d/s, one of the fics gets raunchy though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 06:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12575364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatfromchaff/pseuds/Wheat%20From%20Chaff
Summary: Rhys was no stranger to the stories his fanbase liked to write about his life. Most of them were highly fictionalized, and many of them were amusingly inaccurate in their portrayal of Rhys and the people in Rhys’ life. Of course Rhys had read them. Anyone would’ve.The fans in this thread were discussing the stories they’d written and read that featured Rhys and Tim as an item.Rhys spends an evening getting acquainted with his fanbase's preoccupation with a fictional relationship between himself and his bodyguard/PA.Set between "I'll be the one who sticks around" and "the one look you don't wear well".





	Sweet as Sugar or Sweeter Still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [urbansmilkyass](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=urbansmilkyass).



> From a prompt I got fucking months ago on my tumblr: "I read "How They Met Themselves" obsessively every week while it was coming out, and I completely fell in love with your writing then. I'm so glad to see you're adding more to the BL fandom! If you're still taking prompts, can you write something about your current 'Everybody Works' Rhys offering to pay off Tim's student loans / debts?"
> 
> See, the issue is that in this universe, Tim doesn't have debts. So I figured a way around it.
> 
> Set somewhere between "I'll be the one who sticks around" and "the one look you don't wear well".
> 
> Thank you to scootsaboot for beta'ing! :^)

“Hey.” Tim tapped the end of his bamboo chopsticks against Rhys’ state-of-the-art and very expensive work station slash desk. “I thought we agreed: no working through dinner.”

If this were anyone else speaking, Rhys could ignore them. He’d developed the skill during his childhood, when he’d been forced to work under the watchful eye of his various nannies and tutors. Ignoring the sound of authority had become second nature by the time he was in high school, something that embittered his professors to him. In a place where half the buildings had Rhys’ family names on them, their opinions of him mattered very little.

Tim was different. For one, he was more persistent than any of Rhys’ teachers had ever been. Rhys’ attempts at ignoring him in the past had been met with petulant, often childish displays, such as the time Tim flung wontons at Rhys’ head. Or the time Tim pulled Rhys’ chair back from his desk and rolled him across the office and out the door. One memorable time, he’d even gone so far as to throw Rhys over his shoulders and marched them both outside.

Tim had only been working for Rhys for six months. If he’d ever found Rhys and all his wealth and prestige intimidating before, he’d certainly gotten over it.

For another thing… Tim was difficult to ignore. For. Some reason.

“I’m not working,” Rhys said without looking up from his screens. “I’m…” He opened his mouth to continue speaking, but his gaze remained locked on the text he’d been reading. He scanned the screen, scrolling a page down the discussion thread.

A chopstick bounced off of Rhys’ forehead. Rhys squawked and pushed his screens aside. “That sort of uncivilized behaviour’s uncalled for,” he said, jabbing an accusing finger at Tim.

Tim flicked his gaze up from his plate, giving Rhys the briefest attention, before stuffing more noodles into his mouth.

“What behaviour?” he asked, a tendril of chow mein slapping against the side of his mouth.

Rhys sat back, pulling a face. “Ugh. Don’t talk with your mouth full. And don’t play stupid either, even if you’re very good at it.”

Tim sat back in his seat, in the ergonomic leather office chair he’d made Rhys order in special for his old man back.

(It’d cost more money than Tim earned in a month, and he’d emailed the catalogue page to Rhys with the subject ‘I need this’ and absolutely nothing in the body.

And it was in the office the next morning, wrapped in plastic and ready behind Tim’s desk. Tim looked over at Rhys, his thick brows high with pleased surprise that Rhys absolutely refused to notice or care about.

“Thanks, boss,” Tim had said. Rhys didn’t remember what he’d said in return. Something cool and disinterested, no doubt.)

“Oh! You’re talking about that drive-by chopsticking,” Tim said. “Yeah, I didn’t see who was responsible. But don’t worry, boss, I’ll get right on tracking down the culprit.”

“You’re a child,” Rhys said, rubbing his forehead.

“I’ll have their head on your desk by sunrise,” Tim said, his attention already back on digging around his carton of noodles. Rhys scowled at him, which produced its usual result of absolutely nothing.

It wasn’t as if Tim was the first person ever to not find Rhys intimidating. All of Rhys’ friends shared the opinion that Rhys was mostly harmless and kind of ridiculous, much to Rhys’ continued frustration and confusion. But the first time they’d met, it’d been at _work_. Rhys had been at his _desk_ , with Todd standing sentry behind him, both of them looking groomed, tailored, _sharp_. Rhys had been in his element, seated on his throne, in the heart of his kingdom.

Tim had sat across from Rhys, his ankle balanced on his knee and his hands folded on his stomach. He wore a black suit that looked as if he’d found it on a rack in some… _department store_. And he’d worn an expression of perfect ease, spoke in a calm voice, carried himself like a professional. Even after all the hoops Atlas had made him jump through, all the time he’d wasted entirely at Rhys’ discretion. Tim Lawrence had sat across from Rhys without a stitch of fear.

The memory still rankled. Nothing had changed. If anything, Tim had gotten worse.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into ordering from the Pearl Garden again,” Rhys grumbled. He stabbed his chopsticks into the heart of his carton of black bean tofu noodles.

“Why not? It’s good stuff.” Tim reached across Rhys’ desk and hooked the carton of spicy stewed eggplant. “And we got all veggies, just for you.” He slid it across the multi-hundred thousand dollar surface as if it were a plastic table he’d bought at Target.

“It’s trash food. Must be 5000% of my daily sodium intake in this carton alone,” Rhys said before taking another mouthful of noodles.

“Your fancy bullshit vegan restaurants are probably just as bad,” Tim said.

“ _Actually,_ ” Rhys said, conducting with his utensils. “The raw vegan movement is well-known for its low-sodium, high-fibre—”

Rhys barely dodged a fortune cookie aimed for his head.

“Raw vegan…” Tim shook his head. “You know what was a good invention? Fire. It’s worked out real well for us, as a species.”

The plastic wrapping crinkled in Rhys’ hand as he set the cookie back onto the desk, out of Tim’s reach.

“Just for that, I’m going to make you pick up lunches from Beauty.licious for the next week,” Rhys said primly. Tim rolled his eyes. “How do you feel about BLT sandwiches made from dehydrated nut bread?”

“Like quitting,” Tim replied.

It was late. The sun had long set behind the skyline, and the buildings and streets Rhys could look down upon with a twitch of his chair had come to glittering life. Lights in the 50-foot high rise across from Rhys’ office cut yellow squares into the night. The city streets below looked like a river of white and red.

Rhys hadn’t intended to stay late that evening, but a meeting had run long and they had another one scheduled for the morning. Rhys sometimes felt as if his life was nothing more than a series of meetings, and everything in between was only preparation for the next one. He scarcely had time to program anymore.

Tim had volunteered to stay with Rhys, on the contingency that Rhys was going to pay him for the OT hours.

As if he wouldn’t. As if he hadn’t, every other time.

“I thought the whole point of being a CEO meant you didn’t have to work hard,” Tim said as he plucked a spring roll from the tray. “I thought CEOs spent their time on yachts, or on private jets, on their way to or from a fancy private resort.”

Rhys’ chewing slowed. He could not recall the last time he’d taken a vacation.

“What were you illegally working on just now?” Tim asked, jerking his chin at the pile of screens.

“I told you, I wasn’t working,” Rhys said.

Tim chewed and said nothing. He looked unimpressed. He usually did.

Rhys sighed. He had nothing to prove to Tim. Nothing at all. He didn’t have to justify himself to his own damn bodyguard slash administrative assistant.

He called a few of the screens from where they had lain dormant. “Here. It’s not work. I’m reading something on the internet.”

Tim glanced at the screen before returning his attention to his second spring roll. “Let me guess. Business articles?”

“A forum,” Rhys said. “Remember when I told you before, how people on the internet like to write about me? Look.” Rhys opened another tab and loaded one of his fansites.

Tim stared at the screen as a sleek-looking black and gold webpage loaded, a doctored image of Rhys staring soulfully out from the header.

“Jesus,” he said, spitting flecks of cabbage and fried pastry on Rhys’ desk. Rhys shot him an affronted look he ignored. “You just have that address memorized?”

“Of course,” Rhys said proudly. “I love this picture. These guys have the best gallery. They must comb through those paparazzi sites, but they only pick out the most flattering photos.”

Tim said nothing. He stared at the screen, his brow furrowed.

“Looks good, right?” Rhys asked, as if Tim’s opinion on the subject mattered.

“I’m…” Tim’s brows became more knotted, his frown more severe. “Sad,” he finished. “Sad for you and also for myself, because I don’t find this as surprising as I probably should.” He sat back.

Rhys aimed the sort of scowl at Tim that could get any of his usual underlings shaking in their shiny leather shoes, or their thousand dollar pumps. Tim ate his third spring roll.

“So, instead of working,” Tim said, one cheek bulging with Chinese appetizers. “You’re googling yourself on some fan forum.”

“Right,” Rhys said, primly selecting a piece of green pepper.

“Pathetic.”

“Oh, please. People like you—“ Rhys jabbed his chopsticks, flicking a spec of black bean sauce onto his desk. “—always say that. But be honest with yourself. If you had fans, and an entire forum dedicated to talking about how hot and awesome you were, you would go there anytime you needed a self-esteem boost. You would go there _daily_.” Point made, Rhys speared the last spring roll in triumph.

Tim lurched forward, snapping his chopsticks like a beetle’s pincers, but it was too late. Rhys’ considerable reach kept the spring roll from his grasp. Rhys held it up high and stuck his tongue out.

“You had all the rest,” Rhys said when Tim sat back with a scowl.

“The last thing you need is a self-esteem boost,” Tim said. “Do they seriously just talk about you? What a waste of time.”

“They _speculate_ ,” Rhys said, holding his hand over his chewing mouth. “They read all my interviews and try to figure out if I’m seeing anyone.”

Tim’s scowl shifted, turning into more of a concerned frown. “That sounds dangerous. Why do they need to know if you’re dating someone?”

“Why does anyone read tabloids? Or share gossip? People get curious,” Rhys said.

“I don’t like the idea of a bunch of weirdos online getting overly curious about your personal life. It sounds like a potential stalker situation,” Tim said, leaning a little closer to the screens. He reached out with his bare hand to turn the screen around, but without his ECHOgloves, the gesture was meaningless.

Rhys hid a smile. “They’re not weirdos, and they’re not dangerous.” He reached out with his cybernetic and turned the screen towards Tim. “See for yourself.”

Tim nearly leaned out of his seat as he squinted at the screen.

“Do you need your glasses?” Rhys asked sweetly.

Tim could brag all he liked about his history with the world’s most obnoxious asshole and how supposedly immune he was to minor irritants, but Rhys wasn’t fooled. Under all that stone and hard-earned cynicism, Tim was human. Rhys had come to recognize the little signs of Tim’s building temper. A twitch in his lower eyelid. A flex of his jaw. Pressing his lips tightly together. If Rhys really pushed it, he could get a flush on the back of Tim’s neck.

That little dig only earned Rhys the jaw flex. “These people are insane. This is a thread dedicated to rating your suits.”

“Did you see the poll at the top?” Rhys asked, leaning his head onto his palm.

“I see that you’ve already voted in it,” Tim said.  

“Any fool with eyes can see my best suit is the black Franchi with the floral print jacket I wore to the Met Gala.” Rhys wiggled his fingers, calling up a new window while Tim stared. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Rhys felt it was true, what he’d said before. Even the Pope must look himself up now and then. Nothing was better for the ego than typing your own name plus the words ‘floral suit nice’ and being greeted with seventeen thousand results. The paparazzi and professionals had been all over that event. Rhys could only remember them by the flashes he’d seen through his golden framed sunglasses.

“See?” He sat back, satisfied.

Rhys had gotten good at reading Tim’s tells, but he could still surprise him now and then. Tim stared at the tile pattern of thumbnailed images of Rhys in a slim-cut, tailored suit with a golden tie pin and black lensed shades without a flicker of expression on his annoyingly handsome face.

Rhys had been born into this world. His nursery might as well have been a penthouse, a cut-glass office on the 100th floor. His cradle practically the sleek, black desk he sat behind now. He cut his teeth on diamond cufflinks and ivory tie pins. He was weaned on caviar, spoke technical jargon as a second language, played pee-wee golf. Pinstripe diapers and sapphire soothers. The spoon in his mouth wasn’t silver, it was platinum.

Rhys knew intimidation. He knew all the techniques. He lived and breathed his life as a CEO. He could outstare people twice his size, his age, in their own offices, or private homes. Hell, sometimes in their bedrooms. He could hold a cold, impersonal smile longer than some people stay awake. A long, tense silence was like a lullaby. No one had ever seen him sweat.

But something about Tim, and his blank expression, made Rhys forget every painstaking ounce of his upbringing. It made him feel things he did not often feel, had not felt for a very, very long time.

Rhys did something he would never do when brokering billion dollar deals. He cleared his throat, and filled the silence. “My stylist really gets me,” he said.

Tim looked at Rhys at last, and held his gaze for a single beat. Rhys knew exactly how long because he felt, for that length of time, oddly breathless.

“You’re right,” he said at last, setting down his chopsticks. “That really is your best suit.”

He smiled with one side of his mouth. His hair was a mess, thick chestnut locks falling into his forehead. He’d long ago shed his jacket, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves. He looked as if he’d come to answer a casting call for rakishly handsome assholes.

“Of course I’m right,” Rhys said, recovering with ease. “I’m always right.”

* * *

Rhys came home late, but probably not as late as he would have been a year ago. Not as late as he would have been had Tim gone home early and left him to his own devices. But when they’d finished dinner, and Tim cleared away the garbage, he started to make noises about the hour, about the traffic, about their early start. He called up the digital clock in large digits, watched the second timer click down and looked pointedly at Rhys.

Rhys did his best to ignore him, but Tim… Tim wasn’t easily ignored.

Finally, he said, “Let’s go home, boss.”

Rhys had tried to argue, but his heart wasn’t in it. It’d done something strange at the word ‘home’ falling from Tim’s mouth.

Rhys sighed as he pulled the stopper from his crystal decanter set. Tim Lawrence was a problem.

It’d never been like this with any of the others. It certainly wasn’t like this with Todd. Todd was obedient. Cunning and ruthless, maybe, but about as dangerous as a display sword with a dulled edge. Rhys’ heart didn’t pull any funny business when Todd was around.

Rhys knocked back his first drink. If his mother could see how he was treating his thousand dollar cognac, she would smack him in the head. He poured himself another.

Rhys knew he wasn’t about to get any sleep any time soon. He considered working, mostly out of spite, but he didn’t have the heart for it. If Tim found out…

If Tim found out, he wouldn’t even be angry. He would just look at Rhys the way Rhys’ favourite teacher used to, when Rhys blew past a deadline just to see what he would do about it.

Rhys sat down and let his head fall back against his couch. He stared up at the ceiling, his fingers tapping against the crystal glass. Outside the auto-tinted windows and far, far below, the city hummed itself awake for the night.

With nothing better to do, Rhys called up the fansite again and browsed through the forums. After ten minutes of reading about all the people who would happily allow Rhys to perform all manner of carnal acts upon them, Rhys’ mood had picked up considerably.

His atmospheric rise stalled, however, when he caught sight of a familiar name in one of the chat thread titles.

[ _Is it just me or is that lawrence guy HOT?????!?!!?_ ]

Rhys drummed his fingers. They could’ve been talking about Jack. It annoyed Rhys, but he knew that there was some amount of crossover between his fans and Jack’s. Hell, some of them were convinced that their rivalry was nothing more than a cover for their secret affair.

Still. Rhys should check, if only to satisfy his curiosity.

He was immediately greeted with an image of Tim, beneath which the original poster had written: ‘ _UMM?? This is disgusting??? Who let this man escape the russian gulag for naughty boys where he’s CLEARLY been spending the last twenty years getting swole.’_

Rhys’ frown crinkled his forehead. He scrolled back up to the image.

It was a good one of Tim, he had to admit. It looked as if it’d been taken outside of the Atlas building. Tim was walking towards a car, his head turned towards the camera lens, his hand reaching out to something cropped out of the picture. His black jacket had blown open, his grey tie flying over his arm, revealing his leather shoulder holster. His black sunglasses were a reflection of the street. His lips were tight. He looked focused, almost angry.

Smouldering.

Rhys felt his face grow warm. The drink hitting him harder than anticipated, no doubt. He didn’t know when that image had been taken, but he recognized the circumstances. Rhys knew, without a doubt, that Tim had been reaching out for him.

Rhys scrolled on. Several of his fans had chimed in, writing variations of the same message, and many of them sharing their own images.

Written below an image of Tim at a restaurant, stripped of his jacket, with his sleeves rolled up seated beside Rhys: _‘LOOK AT THIS ASSHOLE. LOOK AT HIS ARMS.’_

Another message, written below an image of Tim, dressed in his usual black suit, checking his watch and holding an umbrella over Rhys’ head: ‘ _fuck this guy._ ’

_‘Do you think he holds umbrellas for everyone?’_

_‘do u think he would hold an umbrella for……. Me?’_

_‘do u think he would break into my room and smash a chair over my head’_

On and on. Pictures of Tim holding doors for Rhys, standing behind Rhys on the street, more pictures of him holding umbrellas, holding Rhys’ leather satchel, standing with Rhys during an Atlas tech demonstration.

In that last photo, he was leaning towards Rhys, the light of an electric arc reflecting in the black tinted safety goggles they were all wearing. His lips were parted, like he was about to speak. And Rhys was already grinning.

Rhys stared. Is that what he looked like?

‘ _Hey…. don’t throw things at me but… have any of you hooligans ever thought that maybe there’s something going on between Timtam and Rhys?’_

* * *

People did, apparently. The chat took a turn after that, and everyone was sharing their conspiracy theories. Many of them were shockingly specific. Some fans even tried to pinpoint the exact moment their imaginary relationship began, when the sexual tension between them finally kindled into full blown passion.

Rhys fixed himself another drink. His hands shook as he poured another measure of excellent cognac.

It wasn’t anything new, of course. His fans had been writing their little conspiracy theories for years. This wasn’t even the first time they speculated on his romantic life, tried to build a whole parallel reality where Rhys was constantly involved in some ridiculous relationship drama. Usually with another man. Usually someone Rhys knew. In these stories, Rhys always had to keep his relationships hidden, lest the news break that he was involved with another man and damage his company’s stocks.

Always before, it would leave Rhys feeling amused. He could waste an afternoon reading up on all the things he’d supposedly had to keep hidden from the Big Brother-esque Atlas PR department. The idea that his company’s PR department would care enough about his personal life to treat him like property was always good for a giggle.

This shouldn’t have been any different. Reading about Tim’s supposed love-struck dedication to Rhys should’ve been funny.

Rhys took a long drink. He should stop now. He should go to bed. Tim would be annoyed if he stayed up late drinking and reading the internet. He always bitched and nagged when Rhys would come into the office with heavy bags under his eyes.

Rhys sat down on his couch and kept reading.

Someone posted a picture of Tim and Rhys at the city stadium, both of them seated in Rhys’ private box. It was a bad photo, blurry and clearly taken from one of the lower stands. Both Tim and Rhys were wearing baseball caps. Tim’s head was turned, casting a shadow over his eyes, but even with the poor quality, Rhys could see his smile.

_‘Find u a man who looks at u like timmers looks at rhys’_

Rhys took another, longer drink. He remembered that day.

_“So, uh. Weird question. But this sudden trip to the baseball field… It doesn’t have anything to do with me telling you I’ve never been to a baseball game before, does it?”_

Of course it had. But Rhys had lied. He’d lied, even as he bought Tim that damn hat. And then Tim smiled at Rhys, crinkling the lines around his eyes, bringing out his godawful dimples. He’d nearly blinded Rhys.

Rhys’ throat felt tight. His head buzzed with heat. He brought his glass to his lips, but reconsidered. He set it down on the glass table.

It didn’t mean anything. These people were just grasping at straws. It didn’t mean anything.

Did it?

After a moment, Rhys sighed, rubbed his face, and read on.

* * *

Eventually, amidst more candid shots of Tim (and Rhys, usually), the conversation turned to fanfiction.

Rhys was no stranger to the stories his fanbase liked to write about his life. Most of them were highly fictionalized, and many of them were amusingly inaccurate in their portrayal of Rhys and the people in Rhys’ life. Of course Rhys had read them. Anyone would’ve.

The fans in this thread were discussing the stories they’d written and read that featured Rhys and Tim as an item. They had descriptions but no one was posting any links.

Rhys stared at the screen for a while. He took another sip and then, safe from the eyes of god and anyone else, he logged into his secret account.

‘ _Hey can u guys post links here?’_ he typed quickly before he could think better of it. Within moments, the lower lip of the screen showed dancing ellipses and a list of the users who were currently typing. Rhys sipped his drink and waited.

It took less than five minutes before Rhys’ screen filled with recommendations and links. Everyone burbling cheerfully about what the story was about, why they liked it, and why ‘rhys_winz’ would maybe enjoy it.

There were more than he expected, although not as many as his other, more popular fictional pairings received.

Rhys typed a quick ‘thanks’, and clicked the first link.

* * *

_Tokyo Nights by  reesiepiecie_

_Real Person Fiction , Real Person Slash_

_Summary: Rhys and Tim head over to Japan on a business trip. They get lost in Tokyo._

“Who gets lost in this day and age?” Rhys asked out loud. “I have a phone. My _arm_ is a phone.”

_Can they find their way back to their hotel without killing each other first?_

Rhys snorted. He read a few paragraphs, his earlier and inexplicable discomfort melting away under the wave of warmth courtesy of the quarter bottle of cognac he’d drank in the last hour and change.

It wasn’t bad. Tim was portrayed as a bit of a push-over, which Rhys supposed wasn’t actually far from the truth. He liked the part where they were cornered in an alley by Yakuza. Was that racist? he wondered. Maybe that wasn’t for him to decide.

He especially enjoyed the bit where Tim fought in hand-to-hand combat for Rhys’ honour. Even though that part was almost certainly racist.

And then, afterwards, the two of them standing in the falling snow. Rhys bundled under Tim’s open jacket. This author had gotten their height difference mixed up, but Rhys didn’t mind that either. A lot of people forgot he was tall.

_“I’m sorry I snapped at you before,” Rhys sniffed._

_“It’s okay,” Tim said, forever patient, always smiling._

_Rhys buried his face in Tim’s chest. He could smell Tim’s cologne. The expensive bottle that Rhys had bought for him at the hotel gift shop. It smelled very good. Rhys gripped his jacket with both hands and breathed in._

_He wanted to kiss Tim._

Okay. That was. That was okay. Not as weirdly difficult as reading about the fans’ conspiracies had been. Maybe this wouldn’t be an issue after all. Maybe Rhys’ earlier reaction had just been… some bad food. Maybe the spring rolls were no good. That could be it.

Emboldened and a little relieved, Rhys clicked to the next story.

They were all along those same lines. Stories about Tim saving Rhys from a collapsed building, from a hostage situation, from kidnappers, from boring meetings, from children with sticky hands looking to grab his suit. The works. In each one, Tim was portrayed as the perfect gentlemen. A Jeeves-esque figure with a nine mil and a six pack.

In every single one, he doted on Rhys. He worried about him. He tended to his wounds, soothed his fears, served every need Rhys’ fanfiction self put him to. So devoted and so very kind.

And _there_ was that amused feeling Rhys had been looking for all along. He never left reviews on these things because it never seemed proper, or fair, to get involved. But he badly wanted to for these. He wanted to tell every one of them that this wasn’t Tim. Tim wasn’t their square-jawed, hopelessly devoted butler man. He was an asshole.

Before Rhys knew it, he had his phone in his hand.

Rhys: you would not believe what my fans think of you  
Rhys: they think you’re NICE  
Rhys: to ME  
Rhys: they write stories about it  
Rhys: about you being nice to me  
Timothy Annoyance: oh my god  
Timothy Annoyance: RHYS  
Timothy Annoyance: ITS 1AM  
Timothy Annoyance: WHY AREN’T YOU ASLEEP  
Rhys: would you ever save me from the yakuza  
Rhys: would you bare knuckle fight in the snow for my honour  
Timothy Annoyance: …  
Rhys: my fans think you would  
Timothy Annoyance: GOD  
Timothy Annoyance: GO TO SLEEP  
Rhys: you go to sleep

It wasn’t fair that in all the stories, Tim got to play the hero. Did these people not realise all the good things Rhys had done for Tim? All the things he’d given him? All the lunches Rhys paid for? All the smart talk he tolerated? All the insults he weathered?

They had it all backwards. _Rhys_ was the good guy. _Tim_ was the one who needed helping. _Saving_. Rhys took another drink of what might’ve been his fourth glass of the evening.

He browsed further into the fanfiction archive, further than he usually went, until he found a series of little stories with blue locks besides their names. He didn’t understand what that meant, but it was there he found exactly what he wanted.

_Sweet as Sugar(baby) by  astryd_

_Real Person Fiction , Real Person Slash, sugar baby, pwp, D/s undertones_

_Summary: Rhys pays off Timothy’s student loans. Tim only knows one way to show his appreciation…_

Perfect, Rhys thought, without reading the tags. He opened the story.

_“Boss. I got this letter…” Timothy paused. He looked down at his beloved boss’ obsidian desk, where he could witness his own alabaster complexion shifting towards rouge._

_“Letter?” Rhys wore a serene smile. He steepled his fingers, soft skin pressing against cool chrome. He knew what letter of which Timothy spoke of. It’d been prepared weeks ago, but it was important that his most trusted employee said it out loud. He’d upgraded his arm just in preparation for this date._

“That’s an odd detail,” Rhys muttered, his brow furrowing.

_“You paid off my loans?” Timothy’s heterochromatic eyes were large and sweetly shining. His rosy lips already parted, as if in anticipation._

Anticipation of what? Rhys’ alcohol muddled mind tried to work out what had started to feel like a cryptic puzzle. Were they about to have lunch?

_Rhys sighed. “Of course I did.” He pushed his chair back, placed both feet flat on the ground._

_Timothy’s face became heated. He moved towards the other side of the desk, just as he’d been trained to do._

_“What do we say?” Rhys asked patiently. Timothy came to a stop in front of Rhys’s chair, between his legs._

_“Thank you,” Timothy said. He sank slowly to his knees._

The drink paused halfway to Rhys’ mouth. His eyebrows hit his hairline.

_He ran his hands up Rhys’ suit-clad thighs. His thick, doll-like lashes swept over his blazing cheeks as he looked down at the tented fabric between his dear boss’ legs. His pink tongue darted out to lick his lips._

Rhys needed to stop reading this. He should close the window right now.

_Rhys ran his fingers through Timothy’s caramel locks. He tightened them into a fist and pulled his head back._

_“Ah ah. We don’t just take without asking, do we?” he asked. Timothy looked up at the king-like figure in his supple leather throne. His eyes were already glazed over, lips parted and wet, face flushed and lovely. He looked as if he’d already been sucking Rhys’s dick for hours._

Rhys nearly choked, the honey-smoke cognac hitting his sinuses and sending him into a coughing fit.

“Stop reading,” he gasped. “Oh my god stop reading.”

He set his drink down. Put his hands on his thighs. He didn’t think about the warmth pooling low in his stomach. That must’ve been the alcohol.

Or...

He stared at the screen, like he couldn’t help it.

_Timothy tried to push forward. Rhys clucked his tongue and jerked his naughty employee’s head back. Timothy whined._

“Fuck.”

_“What do we say?” Rhys asked, ever the patient boss._

_Timothy’s pupils were blown wide, black consuming green and blue. Such a nice, cock-hungry slut. Rhys smiled at him and waited, even as his dick strained against his slacks._

_“Please,” Timothy whimpered._

“Stop reading,” Rhys muttered to himself as he edged forward, his eyes wide. “Stop reading right now.”

* * *

Tim came in at his usual time the next morning, holding their Friday morning breakfast order, two thermoses of coffee, and a Golden Glow energy smoothie. He had dark circles under his eyes, and a look on his face that promised nothing good was coming Rhys’ way.

Or so Rhys assumed. He stared resolutely at his screens.

Tim slammed the smoothie in front of Rhys, making him flinch.

“Here. Because I’m guessing you slept like shit last night,” Tim said.

When Tim made the effort to control his temper, Rhys could always hear it in his voice. A low growl that curled around and through each word he spoke. Sometimes… Sometimes Rhys would enjoy hearing it. Sometimes Rhys would imagine Tim growling in his ear, his breath hot on his skin, lips inches from touching.

Rhys did not look away from the screen he could barely see. He reached out blindly for the smoothie while Tim thankfully retreated to the sideboard.

“Are you going to explain to me just what the hell you were doing last night?” Tim asked loudly over the clatter of his passive aggressive plate retrieval.

Rhys pulled long on the straw, gulping down the carrot and ginger drink too quickly. It hit the roof of his mouth, constricting his sinuses, and giving him a nasty case of brain freeze. He rode it out in silence for several seconds while Tim carried their breakfast to the desk.

“Um,” Rhys said as Tim set the plates down.

“Because it seemed to me like you were drunk texting me at one in the AM.”

Rhys stared down at his mushroom, spinach, onion and three cheese buckwheat crepe, his face burning.

God help him, he could actually _feel_ Tim’s gaze. That couldn’t be right. People didn’t actually feel things like that. It must’ve been in Rhys’ head, where every awful fantasy apparently lived now. Things Rhys could never forget.

Tim sat across from him, safely on the other side of the large desk. He didn’t say anything else, but Rhys could feel his impatience, and his ill-temper rolling off of him like fog from a lake. He tapped his finger against the edge of his plate.

“I was maybe a little drunk,” Rhys admitted with some dignity. He picked up his fork and knife.

“Yeah, I figured that one out. That’s why I got you the bullshit detox smoothie,” Tim said, tapping the plastic cup with the edge of his knife. “What I want to know is what the hell you were doing up that late, besides drinking and annoying me.”

Rhys stuffed a mouthful of truffles, buckwheat and cheese into his mouth. He hadn’t looked into Tim’s face once since he’d come in.

Tim sat back, his fancy chair making barely a sound. He folded his arms over his chest, his clean knife still in one hand.

“You said something about your fans writing stories about us,” Tim said.

“On the forums,” Rhys said quickly. “Just… Little stories. Not stories. Like, articles? They write articles. Amateur articles for tabloids.” He quickly stuffed more food into his big mouth.

Even without looking at his face, Rhys thought he could predict what Tim would look like. Furrowed brow, maybe his eyes narrowing into a squint.

“Why would they do that?” Tim asked. Rhys shrugged. “Why would they write stuff about me being nice? Isn’t that the opposite of what gets published in tabloids?”

Rhys dabbed at his mouth with his linen napkin. “Maybe that’s why they’re amateurs,” he said.

He could do this. He could look at Tim’s face. He raised his gaze, one of his friendly, impersonal smiles prepared on his face.

Tim’s expression was exactly as Rhys predicted. Brow pushed together, lower lids raised to narrow his eyes.

His lips looked wet. From the coffee.

Rhys’ gaze slid away like melting ice on a glass table. “Anyway, it’s nothing. I just thought it was funny, that’s all.” His mouth just moving without his brain’s assistance, words coming out unchecked. “Because you’re not usually very nice to me.”

“I’m plenty nice,” Tim grumbled.

“You are not. You always complain, and you’re rude. To me. Your boss,” Rhys said, relieved to find stable conversational ground at last.

Tim sniffed. “Please. I’m as nice as you deserve.”

 _Please_.

And just like that, Rhys was back in hell. He looked down at his plate and quickly resumed eating.

“You okay, boss? You’re all flushed this morning,” Tim said.

“Fine,” Rhys said, disrespecting his mother and all his fine breeding by speaking through half-chewed food. He swallowed quickly, and risked another glance.

Tim looked disgruntled, one eyebrow now raised, his hands unmoving, clutching his utensils. Rhys looked at his mouth like he couldn’t help it. Tim’s lips were twisted. Rhys looked down at his hands.

“Um. This is maybe a strange question, but… Do you have student loans?”

“What? No. Did you even read my resume?” he asked, sounding bitchy as always. “I was in the marines, remember? I have a two year community college diploma. And my brother is a trillionaire.”

Tim sighed again, and resumed cutting his crepe. Rhys looked up again.

Tim’s head was bowed. His thick lashes really did fan out over the sharp line of his defined cheeks.

“Why are you asking?” Tim asked.

“No reason,” Rhys managed, his voice strangled.

No reason at all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come and hassle me over on my tumblr: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


End file.
